


Well Met by Moonlight

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Meetings, M/M, Nudity, Pre-Quest, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My prompt was for Elrond/Legolas including "first meetings, gradual courtship, partings, wrinkles in things like super-intelligence or the like."  I decided to run with a first meeting, and the wrinkle I chose to include is prophecy.  I hope the original requester will approve!  ^_^</p>
    </blockquote>





	Well Met by Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deathangelgw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathangelgw/gifts).



> My prompt was for Elrond/Legolas including "first meetings, gradual courtship, partings, wrinkles in things like super-intelligence or the like." I decided to run with a first meeting, and the wrinkle I chose to include is prophecy. I hope the original requester will approve! ^_^

“A delegation from Mirkwood has arrived, my lord.” Lindir seemed quite flustered, almost out of breath, as if his news concerned dwarves rather than elves-- and a large party of them, too. Elrond set aside his reading, marking his place with a bit of ribbon. He pursed his lips and went to the balcony to look, astonished that any delegation was sent at all. None had answered the call of Rivendell from Greenwood the Great since the time of Oropher… until today. 

The delegation turned out to be quite small: one elf, alone, riding a dappled gray horse, clad in velvet, looking about himself with wonder, as though he had never seen the likes of the valley before. He carried a bow, though his loose robes masked him enough that Elrond could guess little else about him.

Elrond thought perhaps the elf had not seen much outside the borders of the woodland realm. He had the look of Thranduil about him, yet he was obviously still a youth, no doubt the youngest prince of the wood. Elrond remembered news of his birth arriving at least an age after Oropher departed from Doriath to make his kingdom in Amon Lanc. The news had been a rare event; few messengers of any race traveled between Rivendell and Greenwood-- now Mirkwood.

“Position him well in a sumptuous room.” As the youngest, he had doubtless been spoiled. If the prince had even half his father’s arrogance he would expect to be received in state, and might become resentful if presented with less. “Lay him in a stock of wine.” Elrond’s voice grew dry; surely any offspring of Thranduil’s would be a drain on the vineyards. “Give him our best, and miruvor also, to please his palate.”

“But he is of Sindarin kindred, very nearly Silvan,” Lindir protested, then gave way graciously when Elrond raised a brow at him. Lindir bowed. “I will go to see that your orders are carried out, my lord.”

“Return to me with his name, and say I will attend him later, after he has rested and refreshed himself from his journey,” Elrond directed.

*****

Legolas. An interesting choice of name, taken from an ancient dialect, an act quite possibly political in its intent. One never knew with Thranduil. Elrond knew the elf mainly by reputation, but that was formidable, especially within the bounds of lands he considered his own. 

He prepared to meet Legolas with caution and anticipation, ensuring he wore his best finery. He elected to take no retainers, desiring to greet the young prince himself. 

He found Legolas in his rooms some hours later-- not yet bathed or arrayed, he remained in his traveling clothes: simple suedes and leathers, with a velvet cloak streaming over them just as he had worn when he arrived. 

“Are the clothes we provided to your liking? Others can be found if they do not suit.”

The young elf turned; moonlight shone in his hair, a halo framing unearthly beauty. Elrond hung fire, transfixed-- not by the sight of his beauty, though it was great, but by the subtle hints of greatness in his aura. He had not perceived such in many long years. Perhaps not since Dagorlad had an elf been thus marked. It suited a young one ill, yet somehow fit with the both the merriment of his gaze and the pride of his manner. The fate of Sauron was tied to him, and beyond that, if Sauron’s downfall might be managed, lay a great destiny of his own. Elrond squinted, seeing the young one standing amidst his companions with a mighty bow, much greater than the one propped in the corner; the bow sang, and he heard a terrible shriek as a nazgûl fell from the air. Then he perceived Legolas sitting at ease before a table set in a great cavern formed by many waters, head thrown back in laughter. The scene shifted-- he was sailing, wind in his long hair, and again Elrond heard laughter. Another-- a dwarf-- sailed with him, but surely that was Taniquetil breaching the waves of the horizon? A dwarf upon the straight road? It could not be!

Elrond shook his head, clearing the vision, finding Legolas watching him with curiosity. He paused to let the vision dissipate and to re-evaluate his plans, taken off his guard. He had intended to send Glorfindel upon the quest to destroy the One, but he understood now: that task was meant for this elf, should he choose to claim it.

The son of Thranduil smiled and spoke-- his accent untutored, reminiscent of Doriath, badly sullied by the Silvan tongue. His was by far the most ill-educated speech Elrond had heard on an Elven tongue in many a century, though the meaning was fair enough.

“Well met, my lord Elrond. Are you in need of aid?” It was no wonder Lindir had balked at extending him the courtesy of court. Elrond would have to ensure others met Legolas with the politeness he deserved.

Legolas came to his elbow, offering support.

“It was nothing. A moment of memory. You resemble your grandfather, Thranduilion. It has passed,” Elrond said, dissembling politely and looking into clear grey eyes. They gleamed at him with natural playfulness.

“I was told you have the gift of prescience, and for a moment I thought it had come on you at the sight of me,” Legolas smiled, trying to disarm, yet alarming Elrond nonetheless with his insight. However, he did not make a heavy matter of it. It seemed he had Thranduil’s native charm, if not his polish. “Come, tell me what you have seen, and I will share news of my father’s realm. Join me in a glass of wine.” He went to pour, and Elrond noted that he chose the simplest label Lindir had provided, a wine of the Shire, of respectable but unpretentious vintage. 

Elrond sat down at his side and accepted a glass.

“The clothing is fine, though I would feel uncomfortable out of my own,” Legolas admitted. No diplomat, this one, endearingly direct in his rustic way. He showed no interest in politics. Instead he seemed very much the sort of elf his archaic name would indicate: far simpler than expected. His differences would make his path an interesting one, Elrond guessed. “Your dream visited me as I rested, and my father told me if I meant to persist in the folly of heeding Rivendell, it was beyond his means to prevent me.”

“He would not have said it thus, if he knew it would come thus to my ears.” Elrond was confident in his guess; though he knew of Thranduil only by reputation, he knew much.

“No, he called you one of the Noldorim. But you are not, except by raising.” Legolas gave him a sly grin, as if imparting a great secret-- insolent but accurate, despite Elrond’s raising by two sons of Fëanor. 

“Just as you are Sindarin by blood, but you are perhaps more Silvan by raising.”

“We understand one another,” Legolas laughed and drank.

Elrond found himself wishing Arwen had met this one before her heart became bound to Aragorn. He should have sent her to Mirkwood as well as to Lórien; Legolas was rough around the edges, exotic enough to have intrigued her, yet young and wild and unfettered. Regret filled him, familiar, and he put it aside with the ease of long practice. 

“I am pleased you have come to my council,” Elrond ventured, sensing few topics were out of bounds with this one. 

As he spoke, a tap came on the door.

“Perhaps your steward has come at last with my bath,” Legolas laughed softly and went to admit the servants, who indeed bore water and a wooden tub. “If it will not discomfort you, I will bathe while the water is hot. We may still talk,” Legolas said easily, and began to peel clothing from his body with no self-consciousness at all. Pure Silvan in manner, then, with their love of air and starlight upon bare skin.

Coloring faintly, Elrond occupied himself pouring wine. Was it unseemly to feel desire for one he had only just thought of matching with his daughter? Doubtless it was so. 

“I will have sharp words for Lindir or any other who fails to grant you proper courtesy while you are in my halls,” Elrond said, looking away from Legolas, who stepped into the tub gracefully, water splashing as he sank down, a delightful sound that piqued Elrond’s imagination. He had not seen another unclothed since before Celebrían sailed. How many centuries had it been since he quenched the cravings of his flesh? How many since he had felt the urge at all? How could this young one rouse him so effortlessly?

“Do not trouble yourself or your servants on my account.” Legolas sank under the water then, and Elrond realized he had turned, unable to resist the desire to gaze on Legolas, which troubled the young elf not at all. “They will find plenty to do when the party of dwarves who journeyed behind me arrives.” He sat up in the water. It streamed from his sleeked-back hair and from his perfectly-formed chest, elegant and spare as marble, yet kissed with the vibrant hue of living flesh. “I am content with rainwater upon the leaves, and starlight from the hill; I have patrolled the Greenwood all my life, and often sleep in the wild by choice, even when I might rest safe in my father’s hall.”

Elrond could just imagine him, a wild sprite of the woods, running through the treetops without a care in his heart; perhaps leaving behind all fetters and ties to convention, to civilized life, running bare and free, no barriers between him and the woods he loved.

Legolas’s lips curved as though divining his thought. 

“Ah, but the shadow lies between me and the wood,” he spoke low, and his eyes sharpened. “Thus I am here, for while my father believes we may hold it at bay, I see it has already half defeated us. I will do what I may to throw it off.”

“I will not gainsay you,” Elrond said slowly; he was now certain his intent to send Glorfindel, or one of his sons, on the great journey he foresaw would not come to pass. Legolas of Mirkwood, lately Greenwood the great, would go to represent the elves, and with the success of the quest, he would rise-- or fall. “I must introduce you to Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“We have already met.” Legolas arose, water sluicing from his perfect body. The rays of late evening streamed through the windows, gilding his perfection. “The grey wizard has seen to it.”

“Of course,” Elrond said politely, sparing a wry thought for Gandalf, the eternal meddler, who sometimes saw farther and more clearly than Elrond himself. It was quite infuriating. He rose and took a bath sheet to Legolas, helping to wind him in it. Legolas blinked at him, water droplets gilding his fine lashes; his smile sank deeper and his head tilted, inviting. “How long since you have run through the treetops, lord of Imladris?” It was not all he meant, and they were both wise enough to know it. He followed the Silvan ways, indeed.

“Have you the gift of reading minds, then?” Elrond chuckled to cover his discomfort, and thought of Celebrían, apart from him for so long now. Valar grant that she be waiting at the end of his road. 

“I have the gift of reading wistfulness, and I know the look of one who sits too long indoors, weighed down by robes and state... and crowns.” Now there was a look of wistfulness in Legolas himself, and of sorrow. “You wear no kingly crown, my lord of Imladris, yet the furrow in your brow speaks of one’s weight upon your mind.” His wet fingertips rose and he tried to smooth the creases in Elrond’s brow-- ingenuous, almost childlike. 

“More than one, if truth be known,” Elrond confessed, surprising himself. Not only the lordship of Rivendell, but far more. He thought of Aragorn, and of Elros’s crown, the weight of which none now bore. But its potential, and the hope it stood for in the world of men? That was a heavy burden indeed, and he carried more than his share of it.

“Come with me,” Legolas said suddenly. “Let us ride out to the verge of the valley, and we will run tonight in the woods under the stars, then return in the morning. I think you need it.”

“You are right, young one.” Elrond let himself touch Legolas’s cheek, an unprecedented lapse into candor. “I do. But you need your rest more, for it is true: I have glimpsed your destiny. A weary work lies before you now, and its end is uncertain, though you will make firm friends upon the road-- both from among those you expect, and those you do not.” Vilya warmed on his hand, and he knew he spoke prophecy. “We will run together when we meet again in Aman, Thranduilion, though perhaps we will do no more than that.”

Legolas’s brilliant eyes dimmed, a moment of disappointment, then warmed. “Though no sea-longing has yet touched my heart, I will count it a promise,” he said. 

He put on his travel-worn leathers and went to the balcony, tossing Elrond a cheeky smirk over his shoulder. “Prepare well for the dwarves. There are those among them who will not be easily set aside,” he cautioned with humor, then he was gone, vaulting the balustrade and descending along the sheer stonework as easily as a broad stair, soon lost amidst the uppermost leaves. Ungovernable, flaunting convention like his irrepressible grandfather… and yet so unlike the prudent, arrogant Thranduil who had sired him, so simple and unafraid. 

Elrond spied him just once more, leaping lightly over the white waters of the river, before he vanished entirely amidst the moon-dappled trees. 

“Take your own advice, son of Thranduil.” Again, the words tasted of prophecy. He turned to go, but as he went he was glad to find his heart lightened, his hope renewed.


End file.
